OLD PICTURES

Flip over the silvery pictures
Look for your grief behind the color
In the joy of the past
Your sorrows are lying
Touch them
They will shake on your eyelid
To eject the spectrums of lying
Which are trapped in the universe neck
Return from your nudity
Back to pale clothes
To the faces which have been looking at your face
Since you went out alone
Out of the people’s illusion
Toward yours
You did not take a map to distract you
From the roses
From a dance of a bird
Which haunts the brown color of your skin
You did not take sacred water
Or a polished crutch that smells the land soil
When desire’s drops of your sap ran out
What if – once –
The wretch looked back a little bit?
What if he felt nostalgic to the breakfast table and cinnamon smell?
If he slammed the oblivion bar
In your face because of not paying your depts.
Or your resemblant’s depts.
Or the ones of your resemblant’s resemblant?
We all are tapsters of the wilderness’ shadows
On the roads
We walk as if the clouds
Were in our pouches
As if the star was a maid in our bedrooms
We are the rags
The forgotten in the wind ones
The light passes through our features’ holes…
We believe in coincidences
And fear them
We adore the first branch or robe which grabs us.

Did my mare get old in the exile prematurely?
I am going to walk to the next color,
Not looking back
Since I am afraid to find that the picture is nothing
But ashes